Keep No Secrets Page 10

  —his two years at Newman, Norton & Levine right out of law school taught him that an attorney pays for those benefits in other ways, many times over—but he knows his life would still be his own right now but for his being DA.

  He doesn't mind that he's soaked, not really, because the rain probably forced the media to finally give up the chase—if only for a few hours. He's seen no sign of them since he left them clamoring in the lobby of Earl's building.

  He nods at the guards as he passes through security. To his relief, they seem content to pretend it's just another typical Wednesday.

  In the empty elevator he anticipates the reception he'll receive in his own office.

  He spoke briefly with Beverly by phone the day before. She was gentle and sympathetic with him as she always is, but they didn't broach the reactions of everyone else in the office. He thinks about how to implement Earl's advice.

  The longer you wait to address it with them, he said, the less they'll trust what you tell them. So Jack decides he'll ask Beverly to gather everyone in the large conference room while he takes a few minutes to comb his wet hair and put on the dry shirt that he thinks is hanging behind his office door.

  But the minute he steps off the elevator and turns right toward his office, he knows something's up. He hears the television in the large conference room.

  The new receptionist, Sharon, bolts from her chair and stutters, "Uh, Mr. Hilliard, I don't know if . . . uh, maybe you should wait . . . " Those words alone tell him not to wait—something is happening,

  something she doesn't want Jack to see—

  and she's done a lousy job of covering.

  He steps to the open double doorway of the conference room. Every attorney on his staff, it seems, either sits around the long table or stands along the perimeter of the room, mesmerized by the large, flat screen television on the far wall. With their backs toward him, they're oblivious to Jack's presence.

  Frank Mann's in charge of the remote.

  He flips from station to station. Fox News. MSNBC. CNN. ABC. CBS. Five fucking national news stations are talking about Jack's arrest. Stunned, Jack watches, transfixed not only by the fact of the story making the national news, but also by the restrained revelry that flavors the discussion of it. He watches the dissection of his life: his career, his marriage, his education and any other irrelevant tidbit the hosts dig up. On CNN, Nancy Grace rips him apart as if he's already been convicted of the charges. A former prosecutor, she should know better.

  Greta Van Susteren on Fox seems willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. She reminds viewers that "Mr. Hilliard is innocent until proven guilty, of course,"

  but she still refers to him as an "admitted adulterer." Even in Jack's shock he's fascinated by how much they get right.

  He's also fascinated by how much they get wrong.

  "I can't believe this!" Frank says, a little too enthusiastically.

  What Jack finds most interesting is how little time they spend on Celeste's allegations. Instead, his history with Jenny carries the hour. They rehash all of it: how Jenny was charged with the murder of Maxine Shepard; how Jack was with Jenny on the night Maxine was killed and became her alibi; and how eventually investigators instead decided Jenny's ex-boyfriend, Alex Turner, had committed the murder. That conclusion came much too late for Jack, who had already lost his wife and reputation after his one reckless night with Jenny became public.

  "He's gonna shit when he sees it's gone national," Jeff McCarthy adds, sounding only slightly more sympathetic than Frank. Like so many of Jack's

  relationships, his once close friendship with Jeff also suffered, albeit indirectly, because of Jack's wrongdoing.

  Jeff was given the task of prosecuting Jenny' ex-boyfriend, Alex, because Jack, as a witness in the case, couldn't. After a very public trial in which Jack humiliated himself on the stand by reluctantly testifying to his tryst with Jenny, Alex was convicted. Months later, however, after both Claire and the city miraculously, if not grudgingly, accepted Jack's

  repentance as genuine and forgave him, he stumbled across the information that Maxine had been much more to Jenny than a disagreeable client.

  Jack immediately went to Jeff with what he'd found. It was one of the most difficult things he'd ever had to do. He desperately wished for Jenny to be innocent—but he also couldn't live with the knowledge that he might be partly responsible for the conviction of a possibly innocent man. But despite Jack's pleas, Jeff made only a cursory

  investigation into Jenny's whereabouts.

  He defended his position by resorting to that typical prosecutor's defense Jack had always hated: the jury has spoken. And even though Jack was Jeff's boss on everything else, he had no say, no power at all, in that decision.

  Knowing that Jeff didn't pursue it further because he didn't want his celebrated conviction tainted, Jack went public with the information anyway. Jeff continued to resist, objecting successfully to the defense attorney's motion for a new trial. This forced a lengthy appeal before any further investigation would ensue. It caused a rift between Jack and Jeff that still hasn't been fully repaired.

  Jack's not sure it ever will be; only one of them can be vindicated by the appeal.

  "I actually had a reporter from CBS

  call me," Maria Catalona announces proudly. "He'd done his research, that's for sure. He knew I'd been there back when they first hauled Jenny in."

  "What'd you tell him?" Frank asks. He reminds Jack of the tigers at the St. Louis Zoo, panting with eager anticipation as they wait for meat to be tossed into their open air enclosure.

  Maria huffs. "Nothing! I wouldn't betray Jack."

  Thank you, Maria.

  Frank makes a grunting noise. "Why not? He'd betray you."

  Jack is about to lay into him, when Frank switches back to CBS and a split screen. On the left half is a television reporter; on the right, via satellite, is none other than Jim Wolfe. Jack breaks out in a sweat. He's acutely aware of the

  perspiration on his forehead and at his temples. He pumps both hands into fists, opens them. Closes them, opens them. He suddenly wonders if Jenny is watching, too, and realizes he hasn't thought of her this way in a long, long time. It's not that she hasn't entered his consciousness; she has. More than he'd like, especially once Celeste started hanging around their house. But it was always with a sense of guilt and shame, not in the context of I wonder what she's doing now.

  The reporter glances briefly at her notes as she reads through Wolfe's credentials. Graduate of the University of Missouri at Columbia journalism

  program. Longtime legal reporter for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. Acclaimed expert on legal matters. Jack scoffs at this last claim. Since when did reporting on legal matters make one a legal expert?

  "Mr. Wolfe," the reporter begins, "the story from four years ago surrounding Hilliard's affair with fellow attorney Jennifer Dodson has been widely

  reported." It wasn't an affair, Jack wants to object. It was one time. One idiotic, life-altering time. "Now it seems he's gotten himself entangled in another situation that calls into question, among other things, his fitness to hold office. This story, too, has been widely reported and appears to be an entirely new impropriety on his part.

  But you claim the two incidents are related, is that true?"

  Jack clears his throat as he flips off the lights. Every face in the room turns to see him. A few of the newer assistants gasp.

  Frank turns off the television.

  "Thank you," Jack says politely, though his expression sends Frank a different message. Frank looks unconcerned, as if he's done nothing wrong.

  Jack turns the lights back on and enters the room, closing the doors behind him.

  People fill every available seat, so he half sits, half stands against a credenza to the left of the doors. The attorneys against the walls edge back closer to the rear of the room, giving him a wider berth.

  "You can all relax. I'm not busting you for being curious
." As he speaks, he tries to meet eyes with a few of them, but they lower their gaze. All except Maria, and Monica, the newest assistant prosecutor.

  They both give him a sympathetic smile.

  "I'm going to tell you what happened.

  It'll be up to each of you to decide for yourselves whether to believe me or not. I can't force you to trust me. You'll have to make up your own mind based upon what you know about me." As he pauses to give everyone a moment to think about what he's said, he notices Frank roll his eyes. He waits to make sure Frank knows Jack noticed. "I'm also asking you to keep what I tell you inside this room so as not to disadvantage my defense, but just like your trust, I know I can't enforce my request of confidentiality. So I'll have to trust you to understand that my right to a fair trial takes precedence over your desire to gossip about this matter. It's a very natural desire and I don't fault any of you for having it, but nevertheless, I do hope you'll show the same restraint and discretion you show in all your cases."

  They're beginning to relax; some nod at Jack's words.

  "On Saturday night I was woken by the sound of my son and his girlfriend in our family room. They'd been drinking. My son was supposed to have taken his girlfriend home, but he was in no condition to drive, so I took her home.

  On Monday, Chief Matthews informed me that she'd accused me of sexually assaulting her between the time we left my house and arrived at hers.

  Unfortunately, her statement, together with some circumstantial evidence, didn't leave the Chief much choice about filing charges against me.

  "You'll hear that the round-trip took two hours, even though her house is only about twelve miles from mine. That's true, and the reason for the delay is legitimate, one that has nothing to do with any criminal or otherwise

  inappropriate actions by me. I can't say more, but it will be explained at trial if it goes that far. You'll also hear that my son's girlfriend—" He stops, unsure how to word the next thing he wants to say.

  Just say it. It's that simple. Look them in the eye and say it. "—that she resembles Jennifer Dodson." Two of his senior assistants glance at each other; another tries to hide a smirk. "I think you're all aware who Jennifer Dodson is and what my connection to her was, so I won't rehash that. But yes, this young woman does look a lot like Ms. Dodson. I know the media will have a field day with this fact. I'll simply say this: you're all lawyers.

  You know how to evaluate the relevancy of this information."

  Frank snorts, barely audible, but Jack hears it. He considers whether to hammer Frank right there in front of everyone or wait to do it in private. Frank has resented Jack for years, since the day Jack first set foot in the DA's office. Until then, Frank saw himself as the assistant DA most likely to succeed Earl. But Earl favored Jack from the beginning; even more so once he saw how juries favored him, too. So four years ago, when Earl gave up his position and moved to private practice, he persuaded Jack to run for DA. And Frank's never gotten over it.

  Jack decides not to give him a stage.

  "Obviously, this office won't be prosecuting my case. Still, I can't tell you much more just yet. But each of you should feel comfortable coming to me if you have questions. I'll answer them if I can. Otherwise, business in this office continues as usual. It's important that none of us allow this to distract us from our jobs. There are a million reasons why, but the most important one is that we owe it to the victims of the crimes we prosecute. Understood?"

  Jack scans every face around the room.

  Most look him in the eye now, but, except for Frank, even those who won't nod in agreement. Jack knows it doesn't matter

  —they'll do what they're going to do—

  but at least he broached the subject. This is what he should have done a long time ago with respect to what happened with Jenny.

  "Any questions?" They continue to stare at him; a few shake their heads.

  "Okay, then." He opens a door and motions them out with a forgiving grin.

  "Time to get back to work. You can watch the news—if you want to call it that—at home tonight."

  They file out, talking quietly, but Jack hears their topics are innocuous. Almost all of them nod at him on their way out; a few of the men shake his hand and offer words of encouragement. The lone

  holdout, Frank, slaps the remote into Jack's hand without a word. He knows Jack will be talking to him later.

  The women are even more

  demonstrative. Monica hugs him and says,

  "I'm really sorry, Jack. We know this is ridiculous." Maria is next to her. "What can we do to help you?" she asks.

  "How about if you ask Beverly to bring in the administrative staff in about ten minutes so I can go through the same thing with them?"

  "Sure thing." He gets a hug from her, too.

  Jeff brings up the rear. He waits until the room empties before speaking.

  "Jack—" he begins.

  "You know, I expected it from Frank, but not from you."

  He lowers his head. "You're right, and I'm sorry. We all let our curiosity come first, instead of taking the high road."

  "Understood. You're not the first to get your priorities screwed up." Jack smiles a little and Jeff relaxes. "But maybe you felt it was a little bit of payback, too, huh?"

  "No. You and I might disagree about the appeal, but I wouldn't wish this on anyone."

  When Jeff leaves, Jack shuts the door. His curiosity gets the better of him, and for now, he's forgotten his intense desire to sleep. Sitting back against the credenza again, he aims the remote and presses the power button. A reporter in a faraway city appears on the large screen as the television comes to life. Jack watches, fascinated, as she still discusses his.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  AT JUST SHY of noon, Rebecca

  Chambers steps out of the shower. Her loose schedule is one of the things she loves about her job as an assistant to a private investigator. She works a lot of nights, and when she does, her boss doesn't mind if she sleeps in the next day.

  Her latest boyfriend lies in her double bed waiting, watching her slip on her panties and bra with lustful eyes. He'll try to remove her clothes as soon as she gets them on, but she's not interested. They've only been dating two months and she already knows it won't last. He's good looking, but not very smart. Rebecca might not have a college education, but she has a brain, and she wants a guy who has one, also.

  To avoid a confrontation, she gives him a smile as if she's as anxious to do what he wants. She figures when the time comes she'll claim she has an

  appointment, or maybe pre-menstrual cramps. Her cell phone rings just as she's about to return to the bathroom across the hall to apply her make-up. She smiles to herself. Perfect timing. Her boyfriend is thinking the opposite; he lets out a tortured sigh.

  Grabbing her purse from the dresser, she gets to the phone before he does; he'd shut it off if given the chance. On the small display, she sees it's her boss.

  "How'd last night go?" he asks when she answers. "Any luck?"

  "No, not yet. You just gave me the assignment, Lee." She rolls her eyes for her boyfriend's benefit. "You couldn't have waited until I got to the office to ask me that?"

  "Oh, honey, that's not why I called."

  He chuckles. "Have you seen the news this morning?"

  "No."

  "Turn on your television."

  "What channel?"

  "Take your pick, babe. Take your pick."

  Rebecca started working for Lee

  Randolph almost six years ago when she was still in high school. The job began as a summer clerical position in his one-man office. Lee admired her work ethic so much that when fall arrived, he asked her to come in three or four days a week after school. He was an excellent private investigator, but his organizational skills left a lot to be desired. Rebecca solved the problem.

  When she graduated two years later, he offered to promote her to his assistant and teach her "the tricks of the trade."

  She d
eclined his first offer, not because she didn't want the promotion, but because she knew how much he relied upon her and she also knew, by declining, he'd raise his salary offer. He did, and she accepted immediately. College could wait.

  She was having too much fun.

  The first case on which she tagged along at Lee's side was a doozy. They'd been asked to conduct surveillance on the city's newly elected DA. The client wanted to know where the DA went and who he went with. No reason was given for the request, only that discretion was of utmost importance.

  Rebecca remembers Lee's loud whistle when he hung up from the first phone call with the client. "Honey," he said to her, "hold on tight. We've snagged a big one for your first lesson. And only a day after the election."

  Rebecca's excitement soon diminished, because following the handsome DA proved to be a snooze. The guy led a boring life, as far as she could tell. Each day he left for work somewhere between six and eight in the morning, the only variations being an early morning jog or a stop along the way to drop off one or both of his sons at their respective schools. He spent most of his time at his office. Sometimes he left the courthouse for lunch with colleagues or to attend some function. If he went to court, which, in those early days following the election, was rare, he didn't need to leave the building.

  "Just be patient," Lee kept telling her.

  "The client's instincts are almost always right. Sometimes it just takes a while to get the goods."

  Problem was, neither Lee nor Rebecca knew exactly what "goods" they were expected to get. Their only instructions were follow him and report back.

  As it turned out, Lee was right in one respect, but wrong in the other. The client's instincts were right, but it didn't take long—only a week and a day—to get the goods. And once they had them, Rebecca wasn't so sure she enjoyed her job anymore.